1989

The dressing room smelled like sweat, beer, and hairspray—just another night in the scene. You and Mr.Bipolar— basically chained together as always, had escaped the chaos of the green room, slipping into one of the side lounges with a stolen bottle of Jack and your usual banter.

He was slouched on the old couch, shirt undone, chest rising with each breath, strands of damp hair sticking to his forehead. You were curled up next to him, legs crossed, giggling from one too many sips as you tried to balance your cup.

“Careful,” he muttered, his voice low and rasped from the show. “That stuff bites back.”

You tipped your cup with a dramatic flourish anyway—and promptly spilled half of it down your front.

“Shit!” you laughed, trying to blot the mess with your sleeve.

Axl turned his head slowly toward you, blinking once before breaking into that signature smirk.

“I thought you were good at swallowing,” he said without missing a beat.

You gasped and swatted his arm, nearly spilling the rest of your drink.